Van Helsinki: Before the Case
by nototter
Summary: Van Helsinki and Sophia prepare for yet another case.
1. Chapter 1

The three intervening weeks were much the same as most of those which followed Van's harder cases. A week-or-so long drag while the worst of it healed, followed by a week of relaxation and reflection, and then another week of boredom and yearning for something, anything to do. Everyone had their own ways of dealing with the dreaded 'Third Week'. Van tended to retreat into himself, and spend his non-training time watching anime and reading Batman comics. He was a compulsive collector, though only of things he decided he wanted to collect. Of course, the training took up much of the time; physical exercises, exercises to ease his bruised body back into shape, and his personal preference, target practice. Van was something of a comparative crack shot. Certainly he was no target shooter, but as a man who thrived on instinctive reaction when shooting, he was unusually accurate with a handgun. This didn't translate across to longer-ranged weapons, though he was as good with these as most of the better agents, which meant that his partners often got lumbered with the ranged weaponry in particularly dangerous cases, like the one he had just come out of. The recent case had certainly made Van think. He had come very close to death or capture, two eventualities he rather preferred to avoid as long as he could. Van had run the events of that night through his head a thousand times, playing out mildly different scenarios. Perhaps the third thug is carrying a revolver instead of the more familiar semi-automatic Browning he had received. Perhaps the lead man chooses to shoot and not talk. Perhaps he doesn't notice the tripwire. All these and many more possibilities ran through Van's head while he recuperated. Half way through the third week, when he had exhausted his carefully rationed Batman comics, and read _Batman: Year One_ for a third time this year, he arranged a lunch in a café on the edge of town. Van sat alone, away from the window, and relaxed. Security was lax here, though he knew that all the while, at least two of the men at Table 2 and possibly the entirely of Table 8 were security assigned to him. Whatever his idiosyncrasies, The Inspector at least took care of his people. At the end of the three weeks, Van was contacted by The Inspector's office, to meet him in the agency office across town. Van walked there, setting himself at ease for the upcoming meeting by re-familiarising himself with the culture he had inhabited for the last month or so. The air was hot, and the streets bustled.

Under the circumstances, Van was careful enough to watch his back, though he knew the Baby Browning in his newly acquired pocket holster would solve any petty crime. Van had refused to carry a Browning Hi Power, mostly because, as he had discovered, the heat made the gun unpleasant to wear under a jacket all. If he wasn't happy with his gun, it wouldn't work for him as well. So instead he had acquired a Glock 26, from as close as you could get in this part of the world to a reputable gun store, a compact model, as another sidearm, carried in his waistband. In any case, Van encountered no trouble along the way. He ducked into a side street, glanced about him side to side assessing the situation, then, when he was content that he was not being followed or watched, he ducked into a low blue-grey doorway set into the wall. Once inside, Van quickly closed the door behind him, then moved along the corridor ahead. Four separate security cameras regarded him with lidless eyes unblinking. Another blue-grey door awaited at the extreme end of the corridor, but first Van ducked into a deep-set door about half-way down the corridor. As he clicked the door open somewhat nervously, like a child on his first day of school, the policeman hoped to himself that the people he was looking for actually were inside. He was in luck. Across the small room he found himself in, sat facing each other at a table, were two of his colleagues, playing chess to pass the time. It was the first time since the escape that Van had seen Sophia, and as ever she was spotless. He had never worked out how she kept herself in such good condition yet somehow managed to remain utterly unconcerned about said appearance. She didn't come across as vain or preening, just…always perfect. In a strange way, it was unnerving. Van wondered if that was the point. Today she was wearing one of her white dresses, shaped enough like a sash to allow her to blend in with the crowds outside the building.

Her opponent on the chess field was a somewhat stout, sturdily-built man. Van didn't know his real name, though everybody seemed to call him 'Chef'. Nobody at the agency seemed to know why, and there was a bet circulating about whether he had in fact ever been a chef, even in a past life. Chef's hands were as solid as he was, and Van knew for a fact that he could crush a man's windpipe in them. Chef was a capable gambler, a consummate marksman, about Van's level, and something of a tactical genius, though today Sophia seemed to be just about holding her own. This may have had something to do with the slightly off-colour of Chef's face. This was Van's opening conversation gambit, enquiring about Chef's colouration. Chef grunted and shifted in his seat.

'This? This is food poisoning.' Van couldn't help but chuckle dryly at the semi-irony. Chef continued. 'Picked it up in the restaurant over in South Precinct. Wouldn't go there if I were you.' Van half-smiled.

'It appears to have given darling Sophia something of a boost though, I see'. It was Chef's turn to laugh. He ushered Van close so he could whisper in his ear.

'She thinks she's got the edge, but it's all just a deception. I'm still winning this. I'm just toying with her.' Van shook his head and leant back upright. 'You two are crazy. I'm going to see The Inspector.' Sophia leaned forward.

'Watch it. He's stressed today'. Van dry-smiled again.

'When is he not?' he asked, and the two shared a smile. Chef just rolled his eyes. Van turned to go. As he ducked out of the door, he turned back to Sophia. 'Thanks for the overwatch. Though shoot the man with the detonator first next time' he said. Sophia settled into her seat.

'Don't jump out of any cars this time' she retorted.

'It was a lorry' Van countered.

'That's just a technicality'. Van shook his head and shut the door. He set off down the corridor towards the Inspector's temporary office at the end. Outside, he stopped, knocked, and waited. There was a pause of no more than a second, and then the door jarred open. Van stepped into the office foyer, and handed over both Glock and Browning to the man on the desk. He allowed the desk guard to check him for more weapons, then the door across the room unlocked and he stepped over the office threshold.


	2. Chapter 2

The Inspector was waiting for him, impatiently.

'Fully recovered, Van?'

'Yes' was the reply.

'Excellent. I've got another job for you.'

'Which is?' The Inspector was straight to business.

'There's a man, de Furta. Edward de Furta. He's Chechen, and he's dangerous. Not in the news, not in the papers, but he's always there. You never hear his name, but you see his thumbprints all over cases from Cairo to Moscow.' Van looked interested. 'This man has been a thorn in our side for far too long.' Van asked the obvious question.

'Then why haven't we dealt with him?' The Inspector sighed.

'The Russians aren't too happy with assassination that close to their borders. We've never been able to get in close. He's always one step ahead. Until now.' The Inspector paused, and Van unconsciously leaned in. 'We've received word that de Furta is moving to London for a few days. We have no real idea why, though the theory is it's some kind of information deal. Here.' The Inspector threw a dossier across the room to Van, who picked it up. He leafed through the contents.

'Arms dealing?'

'One of the most powerful men in the arms dealing industry. But he also deals in secrets. Big secrets, secrets we don't want him, and most certainly not his clients, to have.' Van closed the file.

'So we kill him?' The Inspector looked straight at Van.

'I'm told you're good at that.' Van dry-smiled.

'I've had practice'.

'Don't I know it. I've had to clean up your mess too many times', The Inspector smirked back. 'But enough of this. Every moment you spend is a moment closer to Edward bolting.' Van turned to go. 'And one more thing, Van. You'll be working with Sophia again. You two have proved you make a good pair. You'll be Mr. Jean Croche and Miss Alex Tennant, business partners in Hilshire and Sons. And also interested in purchasing weaponry for your private security force.' The Inspector tossed Van a passport and another dossier. 'Have a look at both of those. You'll be flying out Thursday. Oh, and stop by the armoury on your way out. I think we've got a solution to your Hi Power problem.'

'Czech? You're giving me Czech?'

Van was standing in the armoury, another offshoot to the network of door and corridors that made up the agency HQ here. Before him stood M. de Sadre, one of the resident armourers. Sadre was one of those men who always looked as if someone had rammed a poker up their backside moments before, and they were not only forced to remain ramrod straight upright but also disliked walking about. Sadre had adopted a sort of waltz-waddle walk to compensate, giving him an unmistakable gait. Right now, however, he was stationary, holding the problem item before him.

'CZ75, Pre-B model, Czech manufacture, never intended for export. Higher grade steel than your regular everyday CZ model, also rarer. Comes with this', and here Sadre placed both the CZ and a suppressor he was carrying in a pocket down on the table next to them. 'Reliable, lighter than your Hi Power, and more easily concealable. Czech isn't an issue, Van. The country poured its heart and soul into this gun.'

Van took it, and weighed it up in his hand. The weight issue, at least, was true. Sadre handed over a shoulder holster, a smaller version of the one he had worn his Hi Power in. Van removed his jacket and buckled the straps around him. He picked the CZ off the table, and placed in inside the holster, buckling the flap over the top. But Sadre wasn't finished. 'You can keep the Browning , though by the sounds of things it didn't do you much good. You might want to invest in…this.' Sadre ratched in the briefcase he had brought, and pulled out a further pistol. Van was sceptical.

'That looks an awful lot bigger than my Browning'. Sadre nodded impatiently.

'Yes, but you won't be storing this one in your boot now, will you. This is a Makarov. Small, reliable. We've converted this one to be hammerless. A nice backup. Quick on the draw. But keep the Baby Browning too. Always good to have a third option.' Van nodded reluctantly, and took the weapon from the table. He turned to go. 'Aren't you forgetting something?' said Sadre. Van looked back. Sadre held out his hand. 'I'm told you're carrying a Glock 26 too. You don't need it, and worse, it links to you directly, not to the agency, and thus is traceable. Give it to me'. Van sighed. He removed the Glock from his waistband holster, and placed it on the table, frustratedly. Sadre swept it into his briefcase. 'Thankyou very much, Van. Now remember, these are your assigned weapons. You might not get anything like this on your trip'. Van just snorted and left the room. He had no real time for Sadre. The man was useful, but Van always felt ….. patronised. He shook his head. Now was not the time for reflections on colleagues. Van turned to leave the small command centre. He contemplated revisiting Sophia, if only to ask if she knew they were going to be partners again.

Van crossed the corridor and re-entered the room. Sophia and Chef had not moved from their table. Chef looked up and gave him a cursory nod as he approached, though Sophia seemed focussed on the game at hand. Van leaned in.

'You've heard, I presume' he said to the seemingly pondering Sophia.

'Of course. Though I've no idea of the details yet. Haven't had time to study the dossiers' replied Sophia, not looking up. She made her move on the chessboard as she spoke, but a grin from Chef, who wasn't even bothering with a 'poker face', told both her and Van that he had known exactly what she was going to do before she herself did. He made his move, skipping a knight across the board. Sophia sighed. She raised one delicate finger and half-carefully, half-boredly flicked over her king. Chef smiled at her, and she half-heartedly smiled back. Van lifted the folders he was carrying under his arm.

'Two dossiers. One for Edward de Furta, our arms dealer. Another for us. Business partners and married, Mr Croche and Mrs Tennant, interested in arms for our PMC.' Sophia nodded. She gestured to her bag, lying behind her.

'I've got the same sort of thing. I'll have a look later'. Van nodded.

'If you'll excuse me, then, I have some research to do' he said. Sophia gestured to the door.

'By all means, partner'. She put a little too much emphasis on the last word to make it anything but sarcasm. Van half-laughed.

'I'll see you on Tuesday. We'll talk it over, yes? As normal?' Sophia nodded. Van turned and left the room. He paused by the large door at the exit to the agency HQ, then opened the door quickly and slipped outside. The heat hit him like a wave, and he loosened his collar a little. Then he slipped back into the crowded streets, armed with his new weapons and his information, and made his way home. As on the way there, nobody followed him.


	3. Chapter 3

Once back in his home, Van studied the documents. He was to be a self-made businessman, of the shady sort, interested in purchasing about fifty to one hundred modern assault rifles for his private army. His wife, Sophia, or rather Alex, was a trophy wife with a bit of kick to her. He'd apparently married her for the looks, then discovered she had the brains too. Alex had refused to change her second name. Van was used to playing roles, and it was almost second nature to adopt some of the mannerisms and posture of the man he would become as he read the dossier. He wondered how exactly The Inspector and the rest came up with these figures, their exact habits (Jean was apparently partial to tea in the morning, two sugars and no milk) and their lives. Van began to pack. He still had nearly a week to get ready, but it never hurt to prepare. And it gave him a chance to concentrate only on what he needed, whereas closer to the time he would be concentrating on everything else. He wondered how Sophia was getting on with her document. Van knew that she loathed the reading and the constant learning, but he also believed she'd do what was necessary for their mission to be a success. Van trusted Sophia, and he was probably as close to her as one could be to a colleague where all business was implicitly non-emotional. Certainly, there had been affairs between agents in the past, but few had ended happily or well, with one or both partners dying early. The agency officially discouraged them, but didn't forbid their existence. Van had never engaged in anything of that kind, though some of the rumours surrounding Chef said he might have had something of the sort at some stage. Van didn't care for any of it. He had sworn off relationships fifteen years ago, before he joined the agency, under unpleasant circumstances. But that was enough of that. Van leafed through the dossiers again, looking for anything major he had missed. There didn't appear to be anything. The mission should be simple enough.

'So, we just walk it all?' asked Sophia. It was nearly midnight in a bar just downtown on Tuesday night. Van and Sophia sat in one of the booths which avoided being in plain view of the windows. Around the smoky and shaded environs, muted conversations from people of all walks of life, murmured and whispered across grimy wooden tables, came flooding across the air. Van sat in the shadows, with his back to the wall. Sophia sat opposite, where she had a good view of the best possible exit. The two conversed in low mutters, while sipping from what would probably be the last low-quality alcoholic beverage they would have to drink in a long time.

'Yeah, if it all goes wrong. If not, we should have the car to get away. We don't need to go far.' They had been discussing the main mission, the possible dangers, and the contingency plans for the last four or five hours, moving bars every hour or so to prevent suspicion and people listening in.

'In short, once the deal pays off, we just make sure we've got all we can from him, then we kill him and scarper. Worst case, I'll see you in the Rico Hotel, 1st floor, Room 36, if you ring. If you don't…well, I'll see you either in The Inspector's office or in Hell.'

'Is there that much of difference?' remarked Sophia, and the two shared a smile.

'It's getting late' said Van. 'I'm turning in for the night soon; I'll see you outside the airport at 8.30 sharp. Bring everything you need.'

'What do you think I am, an amateur?' said Sophia, and Van raised his arms in surrender, while his face assumed a 'who, me?' look. Sophia laughed. Van knew the two of them were getting slightly too drunk. He stood up, suddenly, and swayed slightly.

'I'm going now. I'll see you 8.30.'

'But you've barely drunk anything.' Sophia was right; where she was on her second glass, Van hadn't got much past half of his first. Van slapped down some money on the table. 'For my share. Pay the bill when you go' he said. Sophia nodded.

'I'll just finish this up, then I'll be going too' she replied. Van snorted.

'Knowing you, you'll be here until three in the morning, and you'll still look perfect when you wake up.' Sophia shook her head in amusement, but said nothing. Van sidled out from behind the table, and then walked to the exit. He looked back. Sophia was sitting where he had left her, watching him leave. Van paused for a moment to savour the last sight of the city in full midnight mood, then pushed open the door and walked out into the night air.

The cool breeze hit him, and acted to slightly sober him up, though he knew he was drunker than he would have liked. He felt a little sluggish, more than this really should have caused, and it set his nerves on edge. He wondered if someone had spiked his drink. It was not uncommon in this part of the world, but it also implied there had to be a reason. Van crossed the street. By the time his garbled mind had progressed this far he had walked perhaps two or three streets away from the bar. The lack of regular street lights meant one had to dodge from pool of yellow light to pool of yellow light, trying to avoid the potholes which were invisible when not illuminated from above. Van stopped in the shadows of a street corner, partly to catch his breath and partly to think. As he did, he heard the unmistakable sound of someone also stopping somewhere behind him. Even through the fog in his mind, Van realised this wasn't likely to be a simple passer-by, at this time. Most people walking at this time of night were either drunk, like him, or had other designs than walking home. He had, at least, an explanation for his drowsy state now. It was some sort of scam. Van wondered if they knew what sort of man they were going to try and rob or murder. He had sobered up a lot since his exit into the street, but the actual drug appeared to be gaining on him. His arms felt heavier and heavier. Van briefly wondered whether this was tied in to his mission, but professionals would have chosen either a better drug or more likely a better method of doing him in. This was petty street crime. However, whoever had drugged him seemed to have miscalculated the doseage. Even as the drug gained, Van could feel the first impacts receding. It would be through his system by the time he woke up tomorrow, he thought. Now all he had to do was deal with the thug following him. Van started walking again, not bothering to listen behind him. As he turned a street corner, he ducked out of the lamplight and into a patch of darkness just beyond it. There, he crouched down and waited. His limbs felt more and more sluggish as he stopped, and he worried for a moment that he wouldn't be able to deal with the man if he waited any longer. But, sure enough, just as Van was prepared to straighten up to clear his head again, the mysterious follower rounded the corner. He paused in the lamplight, as if he couldn't work out where his prey might have gone. Van saw he carried some sort of club, and tucked into his belt was a pistol. The would-be assailant cast about him for his quarry, but saw nothing. Van paused for a moment, and half-straightened up. Then he ran full pelt into the light. The night predator didn't know what hit him. Van slammed into his gut, felling both of them. Not expecting an attack, the burly street thug collapsed. Van, having hit with his left shoulder, and thus coming out of the clash of shoulder on stomach better, had enough presence of mind to take the pistol from the man's belt. It was a Tokarev TT, in many ways the father of the Makarov that Sadre had given him a few days ago. That Makarov, along with the CZ75, were both sitting in Van's bedroom at the moment, the Makarov taped under his bedside table and his CZ inside his wardrobe. Van was still carrying the Browning, though it was stashed in a pocket. The newly-acquired pistol was a useful tool. Van got to his feet and straightened up, seeing the thug writhing on the floor. He grabbed the man by his collar and pulled him half-up, pressing the Tokarev into his neck but making sure that his finger hovered next to the trigger and not in it. The man on the ground panted in the streetlight, not daring to struggle with his own gun pressed to his neck.

'Don't ever do that again.' Van said, still out of breath. The man nodded. 'How many of you are there?' the policeman questioned. The man on the ground said nothing. Van stamped on his fingers and was rewarded by a shriek. The man groaned. Van asked again. 'How many?'. The thug muttered something. Van rolled him over and kicked his side. 'What was that?' he said. 'What did you say?' The man muttered again.

'You might want to see to your ladyfriend.' Van's blood ran cold.

'How many?' he questioned again, kneeling on the man and placing the Tokarev right in his face. 'How many of you?' The man froze at the urgent, furious tone.

'Six and me. 's all. 's all of us' said the man. Van stood back up. He paused for a second to look into the street thug's eyes.

'Six? Is that all?' said the policeman, then stamped on the thug's face, knocking him stone cold out.


	4. Chapter 4

The policeman set off on a run back the way he had gone. Despite his words to the criminal, he knew six men was too many for him or Sophia alone. On a good day he might have been able to deal with them, properly prepared and armed, or perhaps in a favourable environment like his last hotel room, but on a dark street, at midnight, lightly armed, drugged and drunk, he didn't fancy Sophia's chances. The drug in his system was slowly leaving his body, though he was far from sober and level headed yet. He didn't know how far he had gone, or how far he had left to go. He didn't want to run straight into the situation, but nor did he want to go too slow and leave Sophia to the chances of a gang of low-born thieves or worse. As he ran, he remembered the two glasses Sophia had drunk, compared to his one. Perhaps she hadn't been drugged. Perhaps her glasses weren't spiked. But better safe than sorry. Perhaps she hadn't noticed it – in fact, perhaps her somewhat more refined palate couldn't distinguish shoddy beer from drugged beer. She could have ended up far worse than him. Van rounded the corner at a run, then had to scutter back around it. Ahead of him, down the street, stood the six other thugs he had been told about. Inside their circle stood Sophia, swaying dramatically. One of the thugs made to grab her, but she reached forward and twisted his hand round, eliciting a squeal. Another made a lunge, but Sophia moved, less than gracefully, out of the way, reaching inside her cleavage as she did. As the thug in front of her struggled to remove her grip from his hand, Sophia withdrew a USP, full size. Van had no real idea how she had secreted it down there. While her bosom wasn't of an inconsiderate size, it wasn't large enough that a USP could be comfortable down there. Van shook his head. Sophia pointed the weapon at the man she had just evaded.

'Get back' she slurred. Around her, the thugs seemed to be moving away. Sophia gave one last twist to the thug whose hand she still held, and he dropped to the floor moaning as she released him. For a moment it seemed as if she was going to be okay. Then Van saw one of the gang reach in a pocket. All of the criminals followed suit. Soon Sophia was faced by a large ring of small revolvers and semi-automatics.

'Drop it, bitch' said one of the thugs. 'Just give it up'. Sophia threw back her head to laugh. Van suddenly realised how drugged she was, and how much self-control it must have taken to draw the pistol at all. He began to edge round the corner. As he did, though, one of the thugs saw him. He and another shouted 'Look' and opened fire. Van ducked back around the corner as poorly aimed shots hit the wall and pavement. Sophia swung around, and in that instant the thug who the floor, who she had crippled, grabbed her legs and brought her down. Two of the remaining thugs dived on her, wrestling her gun away. No shots were fired, for even though she was drugged, Sophia had been subjected to enough training not to keep her finger on the trigger. The sixth thug drew another pistol in his off hand and began advancing down the street firing intermittently, and to little effect, with both pistols. His fusillade of fire did force Van to stay behind the wall, but was more dangerous to his friends than to the policeman. One of the two men firing at Van's hiding place went down with a bullet In his knee, screaming 'You shot me, you bastard!'. That was five left.

Van ducked down behind the wall and then stuck his left Tokarev wielding hand out into the street. He fired off a few shots, forcing the more sober thug left to retreat to the semi-cover of the lamppost illuminating the firefight. His drunker dual-wielding companion was still doing his best to uselessly empty both his guns in Van's general direction. Van ducked round and put two well-aimed shots into his leg. The man dropped, but seemed too drunk to really realise he was supposed to stay down. He fired the last few bullets from both guns at no real target, and then began futilely clicking the guns at anybody near him. Van was near enough off the drug by now, the gunshots having removed any of the lingering traces, at least for now. His opponents were not well armed, tough admittedly nor was he or Sophia. He could hear her screaming from the floor and the three thugs tussled with her. Despite their considerable advantage in numbers she appeared to be putting up a good fight and near enough holding her own, though Van hoped she could hold out until he had dealt with the last offensive armed thug focussed on him. The man in question was firing off intermittent shots from some sort of revolver, perhaps a Colt Python. Van tried to bullet-count, but found he had no idea how many shots had been expended. He decided to risk a bullet, and darted out into the streetlight. The thug fired off a round at him, but as Van had guessed the gun, supposed to be a precision marksman's pistol, had not been cared for properly, and the weapon did not shoot straight, to say nothing for the accuracy, or lack thereof, of the wielder. The bullet went wide and stuck in a wall uselessly. Van ran forward as the man tried to reload the weapon. He didn't want to take any chances, and when he was perhaps only three or four paces from his opponent when he fired, emptying the clip. The shots hit the man in arm and leg, and clipped his chin, and he slumped down to the floor, overcome by shock and injury. Van scooped up the Python and cartridges which the thug had been attempting to load, snapped two into the cylinder, and began to run over to Sophia and her assailants. One turned as Van approached him, but the policeman blasted him aside. His uninjured colleague went for a gun, but Van crossed the distance between them and kicked the street criminal in the ribs, rolling him off Sophia. The man put his hand out for a weapon, but Van stood on it and shot him at close range with the second bullet. He threw the revolver aside and heaved up the last man on Sophia, the one she had twisted the hand of. The thug turned and hit him, knocking Van onto his back. Van struggled as the burlier and stronger thug pinned him to the ground with two hands round his windpipe. Van had been in this situation twice before, and he knew what to do. He smartly raised his hands and brought his forearms down on those of the thug, breaking the hold. The thug was still on top of him, so Van applied a punch to his throat too, causing the man to gag. There was a pause as the street thug tried to gain an advantage by getting up to try and kick Van with his hobnailed boots. Van squirmed out from under his opponent. As the thug rose, however, Van lunged for the forgotten dropped USP of Sophia. The thug saw, and leapt too, but it was too late. Van grabbed the pistol. Seeing it was too late to fire, he simply smacked the man with it, knocking him over. Van wearily got to his feet. The thug crawled backwards. Van pointed the pistol at him and simply said 'Run'. The thug obeyed. The policeman hawked and spat, then brought the pistol to bear on the fleeing figure. 'Dead men tell no tales' he mused, then fired, bringing the man down. Van hauled Sophia to her feet, slowly. She swayed, and he had to support her. There was no way he was going to be able to get her back home: he didn't even know where she lived. There was nothing for it but to take her to his, much as he despised the loss of security which came with showing her his home. Supporting most of Sophia's weight, Van staggered back the way he had come. He would rest her up, sober her up, and then they could leave on Thursday.

The Inspector was furious when he heard.

'This could have jeopardised everything you two were sent to do!' he shouted over the phone to Van, when the latter called him the morning after to explain. So far, Van hadn't had the chance to explain much. The Inspector hadn't let him.

'With respect, sir…' Van tried to intervene, tried for once in his life to be polite, but his Director was still furious.

'You have a pivotal mission in less than a week, and you go out drinking! Here in the seediest part of town! What were you thinking?'

'Sir…' Van began, waiting to see if The Inspector interrupted again, but this time he seemed to be listening. 'I don't think you're looking at this rationally. We were attacked, I had no choice. I could have left Sophia, but that wasn't an option to me.'

'Instead, you left seven men on the ground, most of them dead. Van, it got out of hand. Admit it.'

'Yes, but simply put, I didn't have another choice. Inspector, I need you to trust me. Just let it lie, we'll do the mission, and then afterwards you can critique me if you want.' Van sighed. He didn't want to have to deal with this. He'd saved Sophia, wasn't that enough? On the other end of the line, the policeman also heard The Inspector exhale deeply.

'Okay, okay. Just don't fuck it up again, Van. I'm trusting you.'

'Yes sir' replied Van, and hung up.


End file.
